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The Witch of War Creek

Page 3

by L. A. Detwiler


  She wondered what speech he would give. Would it be the one about global responsibility or the greater good? Would it be the forceful speech where he threatened them all with lawsuits and disaster if they didn’t comply? What tactic would he use here?

  She knew she’d never know. Because, as was his signature move, he pulled the flask from his pocket. As they all watched, he imbibed in the smooth whisky he always brought with him to speaking engagements. He let the crowd watch in confusion as the pristinely dressed man chugged down alcohol like some kind of ruffian.

  He slammed the flask on the lectern and was opening his arrogant mouth to preach to the room when his eyes grew wide. He coughed once, twice. He needed to clear his throat, apparently. And then the coughing turned to sputtering, his hands clasping at his throat. He started to stumble. The room did not move. Everyone stayed silent, wondering if it was all an act.

  The apothecary in town had not lied. It would be fast work.

  There were more gasps and questions of what to do as her father struggled to catch his breath.

  She knew it was her time. With nothing to lose, she sauntered up to the front of the room, her father now flat on his back on the ground gasping and turning funny colors. She planned on whispering it, but then rage took over.

  She didn’t know why she chose German to say the words in. Perhaps it was a tribute to the German woman they’d had tutor her for a while who taught her strength was all about timing. Perhaps it was just her overly excited mind that made the choice. Regardless, as her father lay dying in front of the town, the girl with raven-black hair began shouting the words the town later would claim was a spell. They were not an educated people, after all, and they lived in isolation. They had probably never heard another language let alone the guttural sounds of the German language.

  And so, as she shouted the words, they gasped, backing away from her.

  Eventually, when he stopped crying out in confusion, when her father had breathed his last, she turned to face them.

  They were paralyzed by fear, she realized, no one saying a word. She stared out into the crowd, wondering what would happen next. And then a woman in the front row spoke out. It was a subdued uttering of a phrase, almost as if in reverence.

  The word she muttered would forever stick with the raven-haired girl and inspire both fear and reverence, both of which were present in the woman’s uttered phrase.

  She’s a witch.

  The room exploded into confusion as the mayor dashed down the aisle, scooping up the raven-haired girl and ushering her to a back room where she was tied to a chair. He did not say a word as he locked the door behind him, the roar of the crowd still audible as she sat in the darkness, processing what had just happened.

  And smiling she finally got the justice she’d been seeking. The bastard was dead. She was free.

  In her head, she chanted the German phrase over and over and over again as the townsfolk scrambled to sort out the mess but also the solution she’d created.

  Brenn in der Hölle Tier.

  Chapter Nine

  Now

  The leader of the boys glanced to the other two who were dashing down the hallway toward the forbidden room, as boys will do. He spent a second or two in decision, and then walked to the front of her chair. He leaned into her face, and in his dark brown eyes, she saw something familiar. Behind the charisma that wooed over everyone around him, there was a sinister flame she’d seen before.

  Goosebumps rose on her arms at the realization. She looked over his shoulder at the mason jar. Had he finally come back to her, as she always feared he would?

  “So, you can speak, huh? Why don’t you tell me, witch, what have you been up to? The townsfolk seem to think you’re harmless, but we know better. You can’t trust a witch.”

  “Aren’t you a little old to believe in fairytales?” she murmured, in spite of herself.

  He held the knife up to her, poking it in her face. But before he could do whatever it was he thought he wanted to do, there were hellish shrieks from back the hallway, curse words, and a thundering of feet.

  She would be okay after all. The idiots had opened the door.

  The knife slipped from his hands and fell straight into her lap as fear overpowered him and he dashed to the corner of the room. Maybe the universe was at play here, but not against her as she had thought. It all happened so fast. He was so fast, chasing the children silently.

  She turned her head to look backward at the scene in the hallway. He had done no harm—yet. He looked at her for the answer. She gave it to him.

  She’d heard when you train a dog to attack, you should teach them another language. That way no one knows your attack word and no one sees it coming. So, at the top of her lungs, she gave the command. It was familiar rolling off her tongue, and just like the first time, she felt a thrill, a release as the phrase echoed in the air.

  Brenn in der Hölle Tier.

  The black Great Dane, obeying his master’s command, lunged first at the closest target, the blond-haired boy. The other scurried away, but it was no use. The gigantic, strong dog made quick work of the two closest, lunging for the throats and letting them to drown in pulls of blood. The nerdy kid leaped forward, reaching for the knife on her lap, but Edmund was too fast. The shiny black Dane crossed the house in a few strides, and with his sheer power and strength, knocked the boy to the ground, shredding his throat out as well. She looked into the boy’s eyes as life left him. She felt a pang of regret for that one. That boy had hope, she thought. He could be different than the rest.

  There was one left, and without his group, he scrambled toward the door, shock and terror painted on his face. He had wet himself, she realized.

  With one word, she could call the dog off. She could let him escape. But that wouldn’t do. There would be questions to answer. It was a different time now. The townsfolk had forgotten what she’d done for them in many ways. They were not lords to tradition like the generation before them.

  So, the dog, with a split-second pause to eye her first, ran the boy down. He made it out the front door, but the stupid boy was a fool to think he could make it out of the woods alive. The dog was a predator and filled with a rage she knew all too well. She could hear his bloody screams from her chair.

  And in spite of it all, she let out a cackle.

  WHEN IT WAS FINISHED and the woods were again quiet, there was much to be done. Edmund obediently returned to his master after finishing off the boy in the woods, his face covered in blood. He panted excessively and plopped over at his master’s feet to rest. She exhaled, glad he had made it back okay.

  The dog had wandered up to her porch five years ago, down to his ribs and covered in cigarette burns. Clearly the victim of some disgusting bastard, she had taken him in, nursed him back to health, and gained his trust. It had been hard work, the poor thing a neurotic mess for a while from the horrors he’d lived through. But she asked no questions of him, and he did the same to her. They were two souls outcasted but at peace in the loneliness of the forest.

  Over time, Edmund, as she named him, eventually settled into their life together. He gave her his trust, his loyalty, his protection. He did not, however, get his bark back. That had disappeared into the grasp of whoever had hurt him. She knew what it was to want to retreat into yourself, though, to want to be silent. Thus, they were the perfect match.

  As time wore on, she taught him commands and tricks. And one day, she decided perhaps they should prepare for the worst. You could never be too careful, and in the middle of the woods with no gawking eyes, she was free to pursue her own interests. She mocked up scarecrows and worked with the dog, who was intelligent and obedient. In no time, she felt confident in his skills. She didn’t think she would need them, but you never knew.

  She was protective of the dog. He was her prized friend. She never wanted to use the command because she didn’t want to put him in harm’s way.

  “I’ll take care of this,” she always whispe
red to him on Halloween night when she put him in the bedroom for safekeeping. You couldn’t be too careful. Who knew what crazy brats would try to do if they saw him.

  The dog rested on her feet now as she analyzed the predicament she was in. The room smelled of death. It was possible the idiots had told someone where they were going. She needed to be ready just in case. First, though, she had to get loose. There was no more time for reminiscing. She needed to get busy.

  It was quite the undertaking to get out of the chair and the rope, even with the knife at her disposal. Her bones were weakened, and her arms weren’t strong as they used to be. Her head still ached from the abuse, and her strength was fading. But she was a survivor, a fighter. She did what she had to do.

  She managed to drop the knife to the ground with a clatter and then wiggle on her chair until she was on her side. With hops and shifts, she was able to find the knife with her hand. She nicked herself in the process, laughing at the idiotic boys who wondered what color her blood was. It turned out she discovered the color of their blood when it was all said and done.

  After what felt like an eternity, she was able to free herself from the restraints. Her body was tired, but there was work to be done. And so she began the tedious process.

  It hadn’t been her first time cleaning up a body, after all. The kids were harmless in town, and most of War Creek obeyed the pact to leave her be. Nevertheless, over the years there had been a few characters who had tested the boundaries.

  There had been the hitchhiker who had got lost in the woods. He’d come with a gun ready to overpower what he perceived as a weak woman. She’d burned his body a mile out in the forest. His cross necklace was in the top part of the mason jar on the fireplace.

  There had been the travelling preacher, a missionary, who had come to War Creek as well. Upon hearing of the witch in town, he’d made his way to her cabin in the middle of the night with some dark plans for her. He made friends with her blade she kept under her pillow. His fingernails adorned the bottom of the jar.

  And then, she shuddered, there had been the girl who had been trying to escape from her family. She’d told her a sad story that played on her heart. She’d welcomed the girl into her home, had cared for her for a week. And then the girl showed her true colors and pulled a knife on her. It wasn’t hard to overpower the weakling and plunge it into her own stomach again and again and again.

  Her eyes, a gorgeous sapphire color, were in the jar, too.

  They had all been before Edmund, though, and had been less messy to clean up. Poison, a stabbing—they all left less of a bloodbath, for sure.

  She had thought about leaving town after each one of the killings. She was worried she would be caught, and sitting in a jail cell was not appealing to her. She liked to have the freedom to breathe in the air outside and sit in the shimmering sun if she chose. She’d spent too many years of her life under lock and key, and the mere thought of it felt claustrophobic. Still, the cabin in War Creek was home, her sanctuary. And each time, the trail of the murders went cold.

  Did they suspect her? Possibly. But as she learned, fear was a mighty power. And even though the town had grown too wise and modern to believe in the tale of a witch, somewhere deep within the town’s conscious, perhaps they still believed.

  She set to work burning the bodies, bleaching the floor, and adding to her collection.

  She just had to decide what mementos to keep from each.

  Chapter Ten

  Then

  She hoped they would just kill her instead of locking her up or worse, sending her back home.

  The mayor was a young man, probably in his twenties. She wondered how he had risen to power so quickly. His dark eyes studied her. She looked away, uncomfortable being in the room alone.

  “The townsfolk all think you’re a witch. What were those words you were saying?” he asked, prodding her for more information. He should’ve gotten the hint by now—she would not talk.

  She turned to eye him, trying to look menacing. He sighed, crossing his arms.

  “Look, I’m on your side. You can trust me.” He tapped out a rhythm on the table he had brought in between them.

  She didn’t trust anyone, she thought. He should realize that by now, too. How long had they been sitting in here, her icy silence the only response to his interrogation?

  The chilling quiet ticked by. The restraints were hurting her arms, but she didn’t dare cry out.

  “West. He went out West, decided a different town would be more profitable. You went with him.” He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the table.

  “What?” she asked when he didn’t elaborate.

  “You both left at the beginning of the week. He told me that you were heading West because he had a lead on a more profitable investment. You went with him. There were even train tickets booked, see?” he held up some kind of documentation. She shook her head.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Look, whatever happened out there, it saved us. It saved our town. Your father was ready to ruin us, to push us all off our land and out of the town we loved. I don’t know what you did. I don’t think you’re a witch. They think you are. But whatever happened, we all owe you. They realize that, out there, too. So, we want to help you. Do you want to go back? Do you have family?”

  She shook her head, her Mama’s face coming into her mind’s eye. She shoved the picture aside. There was no use getting caught up in sadness now.

  “What do you want then?” he asked. “How can we help you?”

  She thought for a long while about all that had happened, about the big, musty mansion back home waiting for her with servants and her father’s business associates. She did not want that life. She did not want someone else laying claim to her.

  “I want to disappear.”

  He exhaled, studying her for a long while, perhaps wondering if a fifteen-year-old girl who murdered her father could really know what she wants. Finally, after a long while, though, his face softened and he spoke again.

  “There’s a cabin. It’s in the forest on the edge of town. If that’s what you want, we’ll protect you. You can hide out there, and we’ll make sure you have what you need. You can stay hidden until this all settles. I’m sure someone in your father’s group will come searching for you two. We’ll all agree to tell them the story we just told you. That should keep them busy.”

  “What if they won’t believe you?” she asked.

  “People believe what they need to believe. Without your father, I’m sure the business associates and investors stand to make a lot of money—especially if the only heiress isn’t there to claim her inheritance. Are you okay with giving that up, though?” he asked, but his tone of voice clearly showed that he already knew. How could he know? Was the truth written on her face?

  “Of course, I am. I want a simple life away from that hellish nightmare. I want to live a peaceful, quiet life without pressures of society. I want to get away from it all.”

  “You might change your mind someday. But we will help you.”

  “Why?” she asked, squinting.

  “Because we owe you.” He shrugged, as if what he was saying was the plainest, truest statement.

  “Aren’t the people out there afraid of me? Don’t they want me gone?”

  He smiled. “There’s a fine line between fear and reverence. A very fine line. They might be afraid of you, but they also respect your power. They think it could be an asset. At the very least, they think it’s better to keep that sort of thing in a controlled environment. Keep your enemies close, you know?”

  She turned to look out the window. She wanted to disappear. They could make that all happen.

  She turned back. “None of my father’s friends or investors wanted to buy this town. He had his eyes set on it because of something he read in his grandfather’s journal about this place. Some sort of retribution for someone who did him wrong. They won’t come after the town with my father gone.�
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  “That’s good to know. Then it’s settled. You’ll hide in the woods until you want to come out, until it’s safe. We’ll take care of you.”

  “And I’ll make sure I don’t cast any more spells,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  “Promise?” the mayor asked, smiling.

  “Witches don’t make promises to mortals, but perhaps just this once,” she replied, feeling lighter than she had her whole life.

  There was a fine line between fear and reverence. And she finally had earned both.

  He led her out of the room, unrestrained. The body of her father had been cleared. She turned to him.

  “I have one more request,” she stated. “I need to be taken to his body.”

  He nodded. “Do you want some sort of service?”

  “No,” she replied. “Just a knife.”

  “Fine,” he said as some of the townsfolk looked on, keeping an invisible barrier between themselves and the raven-haired girl.

  “And you probably should get rid of the flask,” she warned.

  “Mr. Roberts already took care of that,” he replied.

  She smiled. Of course he did. He’d warned her when she visited the apothecary shop of the dangers of what he’d given her. He knew all too well what could happen if it got into the wrong hands.

  And he also knew that given to the right person, it could settle debts that couldn’t be settled in any other way.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Next Halloween: Now

  Edmund sat at her feet as she sipped her tea. The sun was going down. Another Halloween. She hoped it would be less eventful than last year. Edmund groaned, stretching out his long, black body. He perhaps was hoping for the same.

 

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